


Red Moon Howl

by Skullfuggery (OverwatchingYouSleep)



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, Death, F/M, Gore, Humiliation, Necrophilia, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rob Zombie Michael, Stabbing, halloween 2007, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverwatchingYouSleep/pseuds/Skullfuggery
Summary: “But these blood red moon nights get worseWhen they happen to fall on October 31st.”





	Red Moon Howl

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't follow me @skulfuggery on tumblr long story short I got anon hate for the first time in a while and they chose the wrong time for it so I wrote this purely out of spite. Please do enjoy, and I take requests at that blog too if there's something else you'd like me to write

Whatever Michael felt tonight was unlike he's ever felt before. The thrill of a chase, the rush of a satisfying kill, these were the things that had sent Michael's blood boiling in the past. What drove him forward on every Halloween before, and what drove him tonight.

But there was something else too. A dark urge laying in wait the whole year, ignored while he continued to wreak havoc and spill blood wherever he went. And it finally got the better of him when his rampage brought him to you.

You hadn't heard him enter. You were nothing but shocked when you nearly ran into him walking out of the kitchen, his knife piercing into the tender flesh of your stomach and sending you sprawling to the floor. You screamed like the rest. You wept like the rest. What was different now?

You struggled to get up, only managing to slide across the hallway towards your empty living room, with Michael lurking over you the entire way. He slid his boot beneath you, and flipped you onto your back, where your puffy face and teary eyes could be seen.

"Please don't kill me!" you warbled, the first dredges of blood making their way up your throat. "Just take what you want, I don't want to stop you!"

The masked face tilted to the side as it watched you. The stirring that pooled in his gut was not an entirely unfamiliar feeling. But it had certainly been a long, long time since he had even thought of indulging it. Why now?

"I promise," you continued, even clutching your hands together over your chest. "Please. Please let me go."

Michael was troubled, which was not something that happened in the middle of killing sprees and it was frustrating. He brought his thumb up beneath his mask and bit at the edge in annoyance. He could feel it now, his body responding to some unspecified stimuli in his body. What was it about now that was making him this way?!

The floor shook when the massive man dropped to his knees, prompting you to push yourself back and narrowly miss cracking your head on the wall behind you. Yet still he was silent, his own breathing nearly undetectable save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. Your lip wobbled, and you spit the blood from your mouth to save yourself from choking on it.

"Please..." Your composure broke, sobs wracking your body freely as you prayed for any sign of mercy. You covered your face, brain overflowing with panic, adrenaline, fear, and alarms ringing over and over to warn of your impending demise. Your body was telling you to run. But you didn't have an ounce of fight in you.

Michael...liked that. For some reason. Another thing he discovered was how badly he hated seeing your face covered. Before he realized what he was doing his knife hit the floor, and each of his oversized hands curled around your wrists and yanked them away from your head.

Your eyes popped open wide, uncertainty mixed with terror, red cheeks and a gently open mouth still creaking out sobs. A heavy breath escaped him as he slowly lowered your wrists until they were pinned to the floor on either side of your head. Now everything was silent, and Michael's jumpsuit grew tight as the very sight of you beneath him. Wondering what he was going to do to you. He could see it in your eyes.

Soon, he found himself itching to hear you say more, beg for your life even harder, more desperately, just for him. Nobody had ever looked at him and thought he was someone that could be reasoned with, and they were right. Never believing he could possibly like the sound of someone asking him to ignore the voices in his head. But now you were quiet, and he had to change that.

Slowly, like he had done to so many others, he brought his fingers up along your arm until they reached your neck, where they slowly snaked around and found a hold. And just like he expected, he didn't even need to start squeezing to get the reaction he wanted.

"No no no no please please _please_ \--" With your free hand you grabbed onto his to pry it off, and the contact sent an involuntary shiver through him. He let go of your other hand and it quickly joined the first, but even your full strength was no match for his casual grip. You were so distracted trying to remove the hand from your neck that you didn't immediately notice where Michael's other hand went.

It was hard to find a pace that even he liked, so unused to touching himself. His palm ran along his length through the jumpsuit, hips jutting forward to the foreign contact. All while he drank in the sight of you, you growing more frantic the longer he went without removing his hold. He gave an experimental squeeze, and you let out another whimper. "Don't. Don't."

Every second that passed, the confine of his suit became more and more unbearable. Finally, after a long moment of watching you devolve into unintelligible babbling and crying, he moved his hand up to begin undoing his buttons. Starting at the naval, he undid the next two down and spread the fabric enough for his cock to come springing free.

Finally you noticed. Your eyes rolled back in your head, lips muttering something silent and unreadable. Perhaps begging someone or something that stands a better chance of answering you than him. He rubbed himself up against you through thin pajama pants, and fresh tears were squeezed out of your eyes.

Again, he grew impatient. Wanting more out of you. He tightened his hold around your neck and rose with you, walking you into the living room while your feet scrambled for purchase. The first surface he noticed was a leather bound chest used as a coffee table, and that was what you were dropped on, fresh blood squirting out from your wound.

His body overshadowed yours easily. He could feel his heartbeat line up with yours, stronger and pounding in excitement while yours waned. His nose pressed into your hair, but inhaling brought only the pallid musk that lingered inside of his mask. Taking off his mask felt wrong, like removing a layer of skin. But he needed this, needed to be able to smell and feel and _taste_ you.

He found his compromise in blinding you, covering your eyes with his grime-covered hand while the other tore away the cracked latex and dropped it on the floor. Now he dived in, grabbing a fistful of your hair and breathing in deep.

It became a race, wrestling between the desire to run his hand over every inch of skin he could find, and tearing your pants down your legs to sate the burning in his gut. With only one hand he couldn't do both, so he made do with his mouth, his bites and licks experimental but nothing close to chaste or gentle. You kicked once while he undressed you, and he responded by tearing away the cotton pants like they were nothing.

After a few attempts with no guidance, he slid his fingers between your folds to find what he was looking for, and gasped himself when he slid the tip of his finger in. You gasped to, chest spiking up as you began raving at him again. All your pleas were weak at this point, hazy with blood loss you could no longer form proper words, or at least couldn't bother with the effort, given that they wouldn't have slowed him down any more than the nonsense. His hand retreated and grabbed his cock, positioning himself and forcing himself in.

Was it supposed to be so tight?  Were you supposed to scream so loudly? Michael was quickly finding out that he didn't care. He didn't give a shit how to do this right, only that he was satisfied, and right now it was satisfying to press his cheek against yours and ravage you with all the pent up frustration that resided in him. He yanked your leg high and hooked it around his waist, then kneaded the tender flesh of your inner thigh when you didn't pull away.

You were warm. Warm and soft, everything Michael wasn't, and he could feel himself tearing you apart from the inside. Soon you wouldn't be either. You would be bloody, cold, and silent, just like him, just like everyone else he got his hands on.

His hand had managed to land on your waist, and he brought it up higher until his fingertips were sliding over your wound. It was pulsing now, making it easy to dive beneath all the clotting blood and find the wound itself, where he slowly inserted his middle finger. Your only protest was a low wheeze that made the flesh around his digit shudder.

He moved slowly here, where his cock slammed into you without pause nor concern his finger seemed deliberate, almost exploratory. It curled and slid between your insides the deeper he pushed, blood oozing out around him and covering his hand in yet another coat of red.

He was growing hot now; he could feel his body grow unsettled as it prepared to surf a euphoric wave that it hadn't ridden since he was a curious kid, not long before he was locked away. Before he could do the things he could do now. He bucked and growled, he ripped his hand out of your flesh wound and grabbed the edge of the table, letting it crack beneath the pressure as he struggled not to crush your skull in his hands.

It was close now. So close.

When his orgasm finally hit him he shouted, his own voice foreign and unpleasant to his ears. More of the wood gave beneath his fingertips, then broke off entirely so he grabbed your leg, gasping as he pumped everything he had inside of you. It hit him over and over again, his hips pumping back and forth while he struggled to catch his breath. He finally released your leg and it instantly flopped to the side, unresponsive.

He pulled back and moved his hand from your eyes, placing it in the center of your chest. Nothing. Your face was vacant, the blood around your lips was no longer bubbling.

Michael struggled to recall the exact moment you had died beneath him, but he supposed it didn't matter. He got what he wanted out of you. He released a deep sigh, the knot screwed tightly inside of him uncoiling with the satisfaction of another Halloween slaughter. Without much rhyme or reason behind it, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, numb but still warm. Almost still there.

With nobody left to see him he didn't move to put on his mask right away. He fell back onto your couch and simply let his lungs fill with cool air, his eyes drifting idly over to a window.

When did the moon ever get so very red?


End file.
